


mad girl's love song

by nightcap



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Blood, Brainwashing, Brooklyn, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Explosions, Ghosts, M/M, Memory Loss, PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post War, ill-advised imagined time in a terrible youth hostel, non-linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1831558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcap/pseuds/nightcap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bucky,” says a voice, through the thin wall, “We were on a train, in the mountains, and you fell and I never looked for you, and look – I’m sorry, I should’ve never, look – I saw – things, Bucky, I saw them, and I can’t find you, and – ”</p><p>(There are ghosts here. Close your eyes.)</p><p>or:</p><p>Hydra is stripping Steve away, so Bucky makes his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mad girl's love song

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by a random 5th listening to the amplive remix of 1940 by the submarines. i'm kind of insane right now, so please don't judge too harshly, thank you.
> 
> title from the poem [mad girl's love song](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/664/mad-girls-love-song/), by sylvia plath.
> 
> "you best start believing in ghost stories" from that one quote from a pirates of the carribean movie, forget which one

It starts like this: the year is 1946. You are doing everything you are supposed to, but sometimes, past midnight – if you close your eyes and look hard enough, there is someone sleeping next to you.

-

It starts like this: the year is 1946. You have been home from the war for two months.

(Something is not right.)

-

It starts –

A doctor, balding, wire-rimmed glasses, handing you a file.

“James,” he says, “Please sit down. You’re home, no? Back with your family? Settling back in?”

“Yes,” you say, clenching and unclenching your fingers.

“I will cut straight to the point,” he says, leaning forward. “Several years ago, you were captured by German forces.”

“Yes,” you say, and look, there – to the side of his head – a glint of gold, something you were meaning to do –

“We don’t know how you got out,” he says, smiling apologetically. “We were wondering if you could tell us that. How you…” A vague gesture with his hands.

“No,” you say, and you are not in the room anymore. “I can’t – I don’t. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

-

Here’s what you don’t tell him: you have been alone, for as long as you can remember – right there, (if you reach far enough) in the schoolyard, you threw punches when you needed to and took them when you didn’t, and see, now, you know this: there was always something about the promise of war, even back then. You think that was it, that was what you wanted – tasting metal in your mouth, rows and rows of guns, people bleeding when you bled – something about the promise of war.

(You didn’t want to be alone, that was it. You didn’t want to be alone.)

-                                                                                                                                    

It starts like – spend the night with a girl – in a small, gray room, in a youth hostel, and when you see her hair in the light your breath catches, but – oh, no, there is something you’ve been meaning to do, and this isn’t it.

You are lying in bed, and you have done everything you are supposed to: there she is, lying next to you. You can feel her warmth, but – look, there is something missing, but you never had anything there in the first place, so how can you tell –

-

It is 1950, and you sleep with a gun under your pillow but that’s not right, no: it is 1929 and you are swinging fists and pulling yourself up by the bootstraps: you are alone, you were alone, so how can you explain it when there is gold edging your dreams and a silver star slapped in the middle, like a form, on a counter, like smooth paper folded in your pocket.

“Bucky,” she says, and you don’t have any skin left that isn’t touching her skin, but there is a space between you – “Bucky,” she says, laughing, tracing your collarbone, “It is 1963, and you are not 46 years old.” She is laughing and then suddenly she isn’t a girl anymore: she’s nobody you have ever seen before, and she is dragging her fingertips across your chest. There is blood on your shoulder.

You are shaking.

-

You are shaking, in a small, gray room in a youth hostel.

“Bucky,” says a voice, through the thin wall, “We were on a train, in the mountains, and you fell and I never looked for you, and look – I’m sorry, I should’ve never, look – I saw – things, Bucky, I saw them, and I can’t find you, and – ”

(There are ghosts here. Close your eyes.)

-

“If you could just tell us how you got out,” he says.

“There is something crawling around my brain,” you reply, “It is crawling around my brain, and I don’t know where it came from.”

“If you could just tell us how you got out,” he says, gently leaning forward, like he’s afraid you’ll run.  

“There is something crawling around my brain,” you reply, and there is someone standing behind you, but you think they’ve always been there, and that maybe they are more real than you are.

-

“If you could just tell us how you got out,” he says.

There is a basement in the hostel, and you like it; it is half the reason you are still here at all. You listen to the clattering and falling apart of the furnace when the warm bodies (pressing in and screaming at each other in rooms) get to be too much. You listen – there are ghosts here, you are thinking, and then suddenly there is the profile of someone flashing on the cold concrete wall, and – see, it is 1963, and you are not 46 years old –

-

Then, or now, or some day in the future you will never get to, (you know you will live forever), you see it everywhere: the line of a familiar chin, and the broad curve of someone's shoulder. You can reach it, you know, if you push hard enough, but the secret: the secret: the secret: you don’t want to.

See: “I don’t know how I got out,” you tell the man with the glasses (or the eye patch, or the chemical-smelling suit). “I don’t know how I got out. I don’t remember.”

But the truth is you do: it was a ghost with a star and the sheen of sweat on metal and it was a ghost, he is a ghost. You never found him. You will never find him again.

“Tell me – We need to know how you got out of there – Why were you _in_ there –”

-

It starts: it started: like this.

“Look, son, I can give you a job,” he says, rubbing the whiskers on his chin with the back of his hand.

You start work, with pails of water, and soaked rags, and trays of glasses of drinks. It is good, and safe, and it is something to do: that is the most important, you think. You think – you think –

There is something, in the walls here. You ignore it.

-

There is something, in the walls here.

The year is 1948.

(“How do you get that many tips, Barnes?” asks Andy, offhandedly. You thumb at the wallet in your pocket.)

The year is 1948.

-

“I’ve seen your hands with the customers, James,” he says, so you steel your eyes and take the gun they give you and you shoot: you shoot, and kill, and you are thankful for what they have given you. Work is not safe anymore, but you are not sure if it ever was, and you are not sure which is your real job and which is the cover-up.

“Just one more time, James,” he says, so you practice with the knives in the kitchen between tables. “There is only one more time.”

“Settling in, Barnes?” yes, and no, and “We want to know how you got out of there. How did you get out, James. How did you get out?”

-

Listen, there are ghosts here, you say to the man at the front desk, who is smoking a pipe and flipping back and forth through the same two pages of a book, over and over again. I was in the basement. There is a furnace, it is burning, and it should not be cold. Fix it.

There are no ghosts here, the man says, looking up through thick eyebrows.

No?

No. If anything, you are the ghost.

_How long have you been living here?_

If anything, you are the ghost, says the man, and the pipe is gone, you don’t know if he put it down or if it fell on the ground and rolled beneath the crooked desk, or maybe: maybe: it is not the same man anymore. This is a different man. His hair is combed, and his eyes are someone you know but have never seen before.

You best start believing in ghost stories, Bucky, he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. You best start believing in ghost stories: Look in my eyes, Buck, look: remember? In the schoolyard? The time you took dirt and pressed it into my hand? You best start believing in ghost stories, pal.

(You’re in one you're in one you're in one)

-

The year is 1964.

“I’ve seen your hands with the customers, James,” he says (you are thumbing the bills in your pocket), and he also says, here, for you: a gift. A job. All you have to do is make the choice.

And, besides, this he says close to your ear. You miss it, don’t you? You miss the little jolt at the bottom of your stomach, the wet pooling behind your knees. You are not settling in, you are lying: to me, to the both of us. Don’t you miss it? Do me a favor (hot, sick breath on your cheek)

You miss it, don’t you? The secret: the secret: you don’t want to: but you miss it.

-

(You go down there at night, and something is always wrong. The cement is still wet, but it is wearing down and already crusting on the ground. The fire is cold, and you are always just lighting it – the beginning of something scratching at the inside of your chest. It is 1971, but you are not 54 years old: you are pulling yourself up by the bootstraps, and there are mirrors all around you, and the liquid of a streetlight here with you, under the roof.

When you go down here at night, there is always something not quite right. There are bodies pressing in around you but you don’t see them and you lie on the concrete floor, waiting:

“Hey, pal,” he says, crouching down beside you.

“Hey,” you say back, softly, the only time you let yourself be.

He smiles, and it looks like this: You’re lying, Buck, you’re the softest person I know –

Close your eyes and feel a grin sneak its way across your face.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, apologetically, making a quiet sound through his teeth. “I got held up.”)

-

See: they all say you’re crazy. You don’t tell them that the nights you have, like this, when the stars waltz out like a thin memory beneath the pipes of the ceiling, when you are lying beside a man that knows you better than you know yourself - ?

You don’t really feel crazy at all.

-

The year is 1941.

“Hey,” he says, gently, “I’m sorry, alright? I’m so sorry, I’m sorry – I don’t know why I – I should’ve looked. It’s too late now, and I love you so, oh god, I love you so much –”

-

The year is 1941.

“Hey,” he says, a frantic whisper in your ear, “You’re a terrible ball player, and you’re a cheat, and I never should’ve listened –”

-

Hey, says the man, shaking you awake. He licks his lips. Are you ready? Here’s all you need – keep that safe, look – you just have to pull out the pin.

You just have to pull out the pin. Deep breath. Thumb the cool metal in your pocket, the plastic – warped, breathe – there are no ghosts here. There are no ghosts. Just one more time, and it’ll all be over – just one more time, see? Put it down.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry – I’m so so, sorry, oh, god, I’m so sorry –”

-

You walk the line down the stairs, and you put it down, at the end, and pull out the pin, gently, and you lie down beside it, be careful, look, you don’t know how you got out but you think you know your name. You are James Buchanan Barnes and you know your name – the year is 1946. The year is 1946. You are doing everything you are supposed to.

So if there is blood – if there is red streaking the walls, a thick, wet stripe down your cheek, if there are warm bodies, pressing in all around you, and dust raining down on your head – that is to be expected, because this is what you wanted, after all. There is a star on your chest, and you look down, and it isn’t white but red and there are no ghosts here.

-

You put it down, and you are shaking, so you curl up with your head in your hands. The ghost, the man – he is here, he has always been here. You are not sure it was possible to believe he was ever real, but maybe he is more real than you are –

“I’m with you,” he says, a crooked smile, a bruise near his temple. “The year is 2014, Bucky. What year is it for you? The year is 2014, and you are 97. You are 97, Bucky. This is the way it was always supposed to happen.”

There is a star, drawn on the wall with the crude lines of a child, and it is also etched into your brain, and there is something crawling inside but look, feel for it – it’s gone –

-

It starts like this: the year is 1946 and you have been back from the war for two months but sometimes, if you look hard enough –

You never came home at all.

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't read through this at all, probably bad judgment on my part.
> 
> edit: 6/29/14
> 
> on tumblr at jamesbchnan


End file.
